


Taking Care

by RussianWitch



Series: Kinktober 2019 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Caning, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 11:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20865839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Kinktober prompts from day 1 (spanking) and 4 (daddy)Sherlock doesn't need a daddy, but it's nice to know that Greg will give him what he needs.





	Taking Care

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd

“Qui, papa,” Sherlock drawls not taking his feet off Greg’s already overfull desk as ordered.

The mocking words make him flinch and hate himself a little for being so predictable, so—common. They make Greg angry as well.

Angry enough to slap the pen down on the report he’s trying to work through and loom over the annoying—arse hole.

It’s late, he’s had a long day and Sherlock demanding an interesting case because he’s bored while Greg is trying to close several ‘boring’ ones because there are people behind them and he wants them to have closure.

The last of Greg’s patience snaps.

“Auw!” Sherlock yowls trying to pull his ear out of Greg’s grip. 

He pinches harder, pulling the lanky young man up by the ear until Sherlock has no choice but to get his feet off the table and stand.

“If you’re going to act like a bloody child, I’m going to treat you like a child!” Greg hisses. “Do I make myself clear?”

He steps closer watching calculations run behind the young man’s eyes, the consideration of multiple actions and Sherlock's choice to submit accompanied by a shudder.

“Yes—,” Sherlock hesitates and the professional side of Greg wants him to make a joke of it. Greg wants Sherlock to shake him off having finally gotten the point, not to lick his lips, cast down his eyes and finish, “papa.”

The moniker comes out in a stutter like Sherlock isn’t sure what he is saying exactly, what it all means.

“Then are you going to be a good boy for papa?” Greg demands, his mouth going dry and his trousers tight.

“I—,” Sherlock licks his lips again and blinks, “you aren’t my—your blood pressure is elevated, your pupils dilating more than current lighting justifies arousal at—not me specifically you’ve never displayed overt signs of arousal around me before—a word? How curious you are not a paedophile—oh, you are offended—” Sherlock trails off with a confused frown.

“Christ! Sherlock! You don’t say that to decent people unless you want to be socked in the jaw!”

“I’m building a hypothesis!” Sherlock sulks, “people shouldn’t get offended by facts!” 

“And you shouldn’t be offended by ‘boring criminals’ or the fact that I have a job to do and don’t have time to entertain you at a moment’s notice!” Greg snaps.

“You weren’t doing anything important anyway!” Sherlock tries to argue but Greg’s glower makes him stop and stare.

“Either sit down and be silent until I am done or get the hell out of my office and don’t come back until I call you!” Greg orders sitting back down and picking up his pen. He squints down at the file carefully not watching Sherlock make up his mind.

The heavy, put-upon sigh Sherlock throws himself back into the chair he’s been occupying theatrically stomping his feet as he puts them down on the ground. 

Greg swallows a ‘good lad’ and tightens his grip on the pen.

If Sherlock isn’t familiar with the kink, Greg can’t—he shouldn’t even allow the young man to stay, should send him away to either do his research or just send him away period!

He’s three pages further when Sherlock shifts with another loud sigh but doesn’t leave.

Greg can feel his eyes boring into the top of his head as he initials another page and goes on. He’s never had that kind of intensity directed at him, only seen it from the side on crime scenes.

The gaze makes Greg’s skin itch and his palms sweat.

Greg wants to get up, cup the back of Sherlock’s neck to draw him in, make him settle—

”You’re married. Does your wife know—of course, she doesn’t, she wouldn’t be interested, considering she’s the boss in your marriage.” 

“Sherlock! Go stand in the corner!” Greg slapping down his pen again.

“What?” The genius gapes, shocked for the first time since Greg met him.

“Go! Stand! In! The! Corner! Ten minutes!” 

He narrows his eyes when Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, looking significantly towards the office door.

The expressions that flow over Sherlock’s face almost make Greg laugh. Disgust and curiosity, confusion followed by annoyance and stubborn determination.

Sherlock’s coat flaps dramatically as he stands to take the step needed to get into the corner.

“Face the corner,” Greg directs wondering if Sherlock has ever been punished with corner time when he was a child.

“I don’t see what this accomplishes!” Sherlock protests turning to face the corner.

“Fifteen minutes, silently!” Greg tells him.

The coat is a mercy Greg thinks, it keeps him from staring at the young man’s ass. He can’t take his eyes off the young man regardless, barely taking in what the report is about. 

Sherlock fidgets and sways until he doesn’t, stiffening into a rigid stance. 

Greg has seen it before, brief flashes of complete immobility as Sherlock retrieves information from his mind. It’s a cheat, even if Sherlock doesn’t realize he’s cheating. It forces Greg up and around the table again to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Get back here, lad,” he demands softly and is rewarded by a subvocal gasp and Sherlock’s eyes snapping open to dart around wildly.

Almost like he’s forgotten where he is, Greg thinks, rubbing his thumb soothingly over the side of Sherlock’s neck.

“This is pointless!” Sherlock grumbles. “And boring!” His mouth twisting into a pout.

“Discipline isn’t supposed to be fun,” Greg points out, debating taking his hand away.

He should, but Sherlock is leaning back into his grip, possibly without even realising it.

“You are not in a position of authority over me, Lestrade!” the younger man objects.

That decides for Greg.

Taking his hand away he ignores the way Sherlock twitches and steps back.

“No, I’m not.” Greg shrugs, “but you still went to the corner.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he opens the door, Sherlock is practically vibrating, his hand still raised to hammer on Greg's door. He looks like he wants to push past Greg and storm into the apartment but is barely resisting the impulse. 

"Papa...," he forces out and Greg has to contain a shiver.

"Come in, lad," he whispers, hooking a hand behind Sherlock's neck to pull him in. 

The young man practically melts into Greg's grasp stumbling over the threshold and right into Greg's arms. "And tell papa what's the matter." He finishes closing the door locking them in.

"Tell me what you need, lad," Greg whispers into Sherlock's ear.

It takes all three steps across the hall and into the sitting room for Sherlock to stop clinging. Only then is Greg able to get the young man out of his coat before pushing him down on the couch to rid him of his shoes and socks as well. He settles next to the consulting detective curling an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him closer. 

Every time the young man sprawls over him, Greg thanks his lucky stars.

He pulls the taller man into his lap maneuvering long limbs and sharp joints into a comfortable position for them both before settling in to wait.

"I can't think," Sherlock finally says, "I /need/ stimulation, the whole world is—," he makes an unsatisfied sound hiding his face in the crook of Greg's neck. 

Greg knows what Sherlock isn't saying. 

He hasn't seen Sherlock for a while but did get an anonymous email telling him Sherlock was just fine. Stroking the young man's back and arms, Greg removes the heavy silver cufflinks from Sherlock's cuffs and slowly raises his sleeves.

There are no fresh needle marks in the crook of his elbow on either side. 

Sherlock glares down at his arms.

"Mycroft!" He hisses.

His brother, Greg knows, who doesn't belong in Greg's apartment, not when Sherlock is in Greg's lap.

"Tell me exactly what you need," Greg repeats tangling his fingers in Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock glares mutinously, his jaw taking on a stubborn jut.

Greg mentally prepared for a fight, only for Sherlock to slump against him.

"I need /sensation/!" Sherlock hisses baring his teeth. "I need a case, I need a fix, please, papa!" His fingers dig into Greg's shoulders and he rubs himself against Greg like a cat in heat.

Physical sensation isn't Sherlock's go-to, Greg knows, by the time he starts to crave it—he's exhausted other options. There are dark circles under the young man's eyes and a slight tremor in his fingers.

Greg should be putting him to bed, making him sleep then feeding him.

Instead, he cups Sherlock's ass squeezing it hard enough for Sherlock to groan his approval and push into his grasp. 

"Papa is going to give you what you need, lad," he husks, nuzzling along the long throat up to Sherlock's ear to nip at the lobe. "Get yourself to the bedroom!"

There is a little rack now on Greg's closet door where his ties used to live. Since they had started to work on Sherlock's discipline, it has become the home of several implements of both correction and reward. 

Running a hand down Sherlock's spine in reward for taking his place at the foot of Greg's bed, his shirt and trousers already folded on the one rickety chair that lives in Greg's bedroom.

"Dull or sharp?" He asks hugging Sherlock from behind, running his hands all along the young man's body.

"Sharp!" Sherlock snaps and Greg pulls away.

"Sharp, please, papa," the young man corrects himself with a sigh.

"Good lad," Greg praises wrapping his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, directing him to turn towards the closet. 

"Now show me!"

Sherlock studies the implements like he's seeing them for the first time making Greg wonder if he makes himself forget about them every time he leaves. His eyes linger on the tawse, but in the end, Sherlock nods towards the cane, light and flexible, it looks almost benign.

"Please, papa," Sherlock whispers pointing at the cane.

"Of course, lad," Greg tells him, pulling the long, lanky body against his chest for another hug. "Papa is going to take care of you." 

Sherlock shudders against him, squirms and hums tonelessly until Greg gives the back of his neck a warning squeeze and takes the cane off its hook.

"Bend over the foot of the bed for me, lad," he orders nudging Sherlock towards the bed.

Checking over the cane, Greg watches Sherlock from the corner of his eye, how the young man sways in his sport for a moment biting his lips like he's arguing with himself over something before getting into position.

Greg traces the elastic of Sherlock's pants, slipping a finger under it to caress the pale skin of Sherlock's back.

He rakes his nails along Sherlock's back to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's curls raising Sherlock's head.

"You've been good," Greg tells him. "Coming to papa, telling me what you need." 

He bends down to kiss Sherlock's cheek. 

"I'm going to give you what you need, lad," he says stroking Sherlock's shoulders. "Grab hold of the blanket and keep holding on tight." 

"Yes, papa," Sherlock's voice is muffled against the blanket, one blue-green eye peeking up at Greg.

"Good, lad," he says laying the cane on Sherlock's back and hooking his fingers in the elastic of his pants again to slide them down to hobble him at the knees.

Sherlock’s ass is pale, Greg is willing to swear the skin there has never seen a ray of sunlight in decades, the cane is going to leave beautiful marks.

“Deep breath now,” is the only warning Greg gives as he gets in position. 

The cane feels heavy in his hand, feels more like lead than ratan as he draws it back all the reasons he shouldn’t be giving Sherlock a trashing flashing through his mind.

He brings it down hard, perception slowing down as the wood connects with the swell of Sherlock’s ass indenting the skin then springing away leaving two bright red lines glowing up at him accusingly as Sherlock groans into the bedspread.

After the first strike, it always becomes easier for Greg to let the cane dance across Sherlock’s ass leaving a neat ladder of double welts all the way down to the tops of the young man’s thighs.

Sherlock’s groans turn into yelps, then finally ugly sounding sobs as Greg lays stripe after stripe on his pale skin turning it a deep, hot red of ownership. The sounds of pain light a fire in Greg’s gut that straightens his spine and strengthens his arm as he swings again and again until Sherlock’s ass is covered with a latticework purpling lines darker spots where the lines cross like inverted stars. He should be horrified, not straining in his pants, proprietary satisfaction raining the hair on his body and making his nerves sing.

His boy is beautiful in his suffering, tears, snot and drool drying on his cheeks and the blanket, his body trembling with the effort to stay in position.

It’s a gift Sherlock gives him every time he comes over, every time he submits to Greg’s care trusts Greg to take care of him another piece of Greg’s heart goes with him when Sherlock leaves again.

“More?” He asks, rubbing the tip of the cane along the knobs of Sherlock’s spine waiting patiently for the boy to process the question.

“No, papa,” Sherlock finally stutters between hiccups and Greg drops the cane to gather the shivering man in his arms.

“Good boy,” Greg praises running his hand through sweat-clumped curls and kissing the nearest ear, “come to papa.”

Sherlock hisses and curses when climbing onto the bed pulls at the welts on his ass. He pushes Greg onto his back burying his face in Greg’s throat as he drags Sherlock into his lap.

“You’ve been so good for papa,” he repeats over and over again, “my good boy.”

Sherlock nuzzles at his neck and throat whimpering every time his ass comes into contact with Greg’s thighs. “My handsome, obedient boy,” Greg says blindly reaching into the bedside table for the wet-wipes to clean Sherlock’s face.

“You’ve been so good, asking for help, being strong for me.” He kisses Sherlock’s cheeks and chin, mouthing his way down Sherlock’s throat to nip at sharp collar bones and back.

Sherlock shivers and Greg throws a dry corner of the blanket over them both. 

“Thank you, papa,” Sherlock slurs against his throat.

“I have to take a look at your arse before you can sleep, lad,” Greg reminds him, petting Sherlock’s hair.

“My arse is fine,” Sherlock protests, digging his hands into Greg’s shoulders and his knees in Greg’s sides, whimpering when Greg gropes him.

“Fine, is it?” Greg feels Sherlock’s skin burn under his hand. 

“You like when I sleep, papa,” Sherlock argues but doesn’t protest when Greg nudges him off sitting up.

“I do, lad,” he agrees taking out the medicinal cream and bearing Sherlock’s arse.

He’s going to have trouble sitting for a good long while, Greg thinks carefully dabbing away the traces of blood, then covering the hot skin with soothing cream until Sherlock stops flinching.

Wrestling the young man off the blanket and under the sheet takes some effort, Sherlock clinging to him every chance he gets. By the time Sherlock is situated, Greg needs a nap as well. 

The cane still needs sanitizing, but that would mean leaving Sherlock alone, so Greg puts it on the bedside table and wraps himself around his lad.

The “thank you” is almost too soft to hear, but Greg has learned to listen for it.


End file.
